


"fighting"

by etben



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etben/pseuds/etben
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He worries about them, his Rays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"fighting"

**Author's Note:**

> written for stop_drop_porn

He worries about them, his Rays.

Not that this is, or should be, much of a surprise. Benton Fraser is a worrier; he thinks a great deal about the welfare his fellow man. He thinks about his neighbors—well, Ray Kowalski's neighbors, properly speaking, since the Consulate isn't in a residential neighborhood, but the fact remains that Mrs. Kraft's arthritis has been bothering her, that Miss Webster's girlfriend is away on a long business trip, that Mr Szczygiel fights with his brother over finances. He worries about Ray Vecchio's family as well, of course: Francesca's pregnancies have put something of a strain on Mrs. Vecchio, not to mention the obvious medical concerns for Francesca and her children. Benton worries about the officers at the 2-7, and those at the Consulate, and those few Canadian officers with whom he's maintained contact over the years.

Mostly, though, he worries about his Rays, Ray Kowalski and Ray Vecchio.

They are both of them good men, brave and loyal and loving, dedicated to the work they do, intelligent, talented, passionate. They are the best friends he has, the best friends he has ever had, and he cares deeply for both of them.

At the same time, he's not _blind_: they're both extremely difficult to deal with. They are stubborn, and easily annoyed, and distressingly conservative when it comes to non-traditional police methodology.

Recently, they've been arguing a great deal. Ray Vecchio will make a suggestion, and Ray Kowalski will sneer, and Ray Vecchio will demand to know what the fuck that means, Kowalski.

"Nothing, Vecchio, doesn't mean a damn thing," Ray will say, and for a second it will look like they stand a chance of working together peacefully for a change. Then, though, just as Ray is nodding in satisfaction and turning away, Ray—who seems to be constitutionally incapable of letting things alone—will add a few words, deceptively quiet and deliberately inflammatory.

"I mean, it's a stupid idea," he'll say, "but, hey, you're the boss, so sure—let's do it your way." He'll lean back on his heels, arms spread wide in elaborate acquiescence, eyes wide in feigned innocence. Sometimes he even bows; it's an elegant gesture, and one totally at odds with his jeans and t-shirts.

Courtesy is never out of place, but this is not courtesy. It's an attack, a provocation, an intentionally aggravating act.

In return, Ray Vecchio will adopt attitudes more suited to Ray Kowalski's dress: he'll lean forward, fists up, shouting and cursing and menacing. Ray will pick up the gauntlet, and then they'll be off and running, on yet another day-long argument. They'll fight at the 27th, shouting insults across the room when they're not actively at each other's throats, and they'll fight in the car, paying virtually no attention to the traffic. They'll even fight in the interview rooms, a subtle back-and-forth of jibes and jabs that confuses criminals and honest citizens alike.

He's avoided being with them on stakeouts, but he's sure they fight there as well.

They never apologize, but each day, they come in together in apparent amity, laughing and joking, until something else happens to start their war again.

They're worrying him, so when they leave the station house—Ray Kowalski storming out, Ray Vecchio shouting insults after him—Fraser follows, with a vague idea of talking to them, making them see sense, bringing this fighting to an end.

It takes him a moment to find them—he's listening for raised voices, looking for signs of a fight, and they simply aren't present. He wonders if perhaps they have gone their separate ways, or if they have made peace of their own accord and are now stalking the wild sandwich in its native Chicago habitat. Either way, they are not here to receive his counsel, and he turns back towards the building.

Motion, just at the corner of his vision, and then he sees them: up against a condemned building, pressed into a doorway, shoving against each other. Though their fighting has been vicious—and, of late, near-constant—this is the first he's seen of outright violence. He starts over, intending to separate them, when the noisy silence of the Chicago alley is broken by a low, helpless moan.

Fraser freezes, flushing as red as the uniform jacket as the world reconfigures itself before his eyes. They're up against the wall, yes, but they're shoving _towards_ each other, not against each other. Ray's hands are in Ray's hair, mussing it even more than usual, and Ray's hands are tight on Ray's hips, pulling him towards the wall. They're not shouting, or talking at all: they're kissing, wet and lewd, and when they break for air their gasps echo down the alley.

"Fuck, Vecchio," Ray says, as Ray's mouth travels down the side of his neck, "Fuck, yeah, come on, like that, _fuck_." Even at a distance, Fraser can see the mark that Ray's left, right there at the base of Ray's throat, where the t-shirt will cover it.—but then again, Fraser has excellent eyesight.

"You like that, Kowalski? Like my mouth on you, hmmm?" His hearing is also above average, so he hears every syllable, hears their breathing, hears the small involuntary sounds that Ray makes as Ray presses him back against the wall, grinding their hips together. He hears Ray Vecchio laugh, and he hears the zipper of Ray's jeans go down, and then he hears Ray:

"Vecchio, please, yes, God, please, fuck, fuck, _fuck_!" His head drops back against the wall—it sounds like it hurts—and he groans, low and heartfelt.

Ray has his hips pinned against the wall, now, and he's sucking Ray's cock; Fraser can see wet flashes of spit-slick flesh every time he draws his head back. They're almost silent, now: Ray's mouth is otherwise occupied, and Ray seems unable to manage anything more complicated than breathing, staring up at the late-summer sky as though it has the answers to the universe.

Fraser would look, but he's never found clouds to be particularly informative. In any event, the scene before him is much more interesting.

Ray, he realizes, has one hand in his trousers. The light's not good enough for Fraser to see what he's doing, but the motion of his arm is unmistakable, a short, sharp back-and-forth. Above him, Ray moans, jerking his hips forward. Fraser can see Ray's throat working, and the way his hand moves faster and faster until he, too, groans, resting his head against Ray's hip.

They pause for a moment, breathing heavily, and then Ray grabs Ray's hand, pulls him to his feet. Their attention is all on each other, and Fraser backs into an alcove of his own, so that they won't see him when eventually they move apart.

"Fuck, Kowalski," Ray says, "I just got these cleaned!" He brushes at the knees of his pants, frowning, and Ray laughs.

"I'll buy you a new pair, Vecchio," he says, and puts his hand at the back of Ray's neck, pulling them close for a kiss. When they break apart, they're all a little short of breath.

"Yeah, right, Kowalski," Ray says, picking up the thread of the argument without any acknowledgement of the interruption, "like you can afford that." And just like that, they're fighting again.

_No_, Fraser realizes, reaching down to adjust his trousers, _not fighting: flirting_.

It all makes sense, now.


End file.
